


I Turn My Good Side In

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic, Drabbles, Flirting, M/M, Morning After, Requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: Life, love, and other imperatives. 
(victuuri ficlet requests from my tumblr. possibly other pairings in future if/when i write them)





	1. do it again

For sears on twitter, who wanted Yuuri watching Viktor skate. 

\--

In university Yuuri had been friends with a film student who was impossible to watch movies with. She would critique every choice, roll her eyes at stilted dialogue, snort at unnecessary jump cuts. 

He thinks about her this morning when he watches Viktor going through his short program. 

He is still beautiful, and his body still moves like quicksilver, like mercury, liquid and gleaming under the soft light. Watching him still fills Yuuri with longing and warmth. But he remembers when he was young and skating had just looked like a dance, a single perfect unit of movement, unpredictable and seamless. Now, of course, he knows every program is made up of dozens of discrete parts, specific moves blending into others. So when Viktor is finished Yuuri doesn’t think much of it when he comments, “Your last axel was under-rotated.”

Viktor pauses with his water bottle halfway to his mouth. “Thanks, Coach.” His smile is cool and private and makes Yuuri flush.

“Well, it _was_.”

Viktor takes a drink, still smiling. “I remember when you were too nervous to ask me to pass the salt.”

“It was never that bad!”

“It was awful.”

Yuuri grabs the front of Viktor’s sweater, drags him in close. Viktor’s breaths are still slightly elevated, a tiny gasp forced out of his throat.

Yuuri murmurs, “Do it again, from the top,” and lets him go.


	2. *heart heart eggplant prayer hands*

For marbleflan, who wanted indecipherable text messages. 

\--  
“Is he texting?”

Phichit squints. “I think so.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. Viktor is thirty seconds from stepping onto the ice for his first short program since his comeback, and he’s _texting_. Neither Yurio nor Phichit seem to share his consternation, but Yuuri supposes that next to them he’s basically a luddite.

Across the ice, Viktor puts his phone down just as Yuuri’s chirps in his hand.

Yurio snorts. “Of course.”

The message is entirely emojis. If Yuuri hadn’t just seen Viktor sending it he would have thought it was an accident.

“Uh…”

Yurio, who has zero sense of privacy–well, of other people’s privacy–glances at the screen. He gags. “That perv. You guys are gross.”

Yuuri laughs. “That…you can read this?”

Yurio gives him a _no shit dumbass_ look and goes back to his own phone.

Phichit takes Yuuri’s with a delicate, “May I?” He squints at the line of emojis and starts to giggle.

“What?” This is worse than trying to understand jokes in English. “What does it say?”

Phichit grins as Viktor strikes his starting pose. “I’ll just let it be a surprise.”


	3. it's a nice day

for zee, who wanted Yuuri all cheery-happy due to Getting Laid. 

Yurio POV

\--  
The pig is in an obnoxious mood. He’s chatting with everyone, even the fucking waiter. He compliments the food, though the hotel’s coffee is burnt and the eggs are just okay. He’s smiling at the tabletop.

Yuri has a headache and the tag in his new United Colors of Benetton pullover itches. “Why are you so goddamn happy?” He rubs crusty sleep out of his eyes.

“Am I?” Yuuri’s cheeks tinge pink. “I guess…it’s just a nice day?”

Yuri glances over the pig’s head to where cold drizzle is misting up the window. He snorts. “Where the heck is Viktor?” They were all supposed to eat together; Yuri wouldn’t have dragged himself out of bed at the asscrack of dawn for just Pork Cutlet Bowl.

“Still sleeping. I-I mean. Probably still sleeping? I’m not sure.” Yuuri fiddles with his phone.

“Morning!” It’s the Thai skater with the unpronounceable name, Yuuri’s friend from Detroit. He sits down at their table. This is the worst. “You look cheerful this morning.”

Yuuri cheeks flush darker. “Yeah.”

They share a look that Yuri doesn’t care enough to interpret. Phichit’s smile widens. “How’s Viktor?”

“He’s good.”

“I’m sure.”

Yuuri elbows him, but he doesn’t look annoyed. Just more smiley than ever.

Facts stack up in Yuri’s mind and–oh. Oh.

He downs his coffee. This is going to be a long fucking day.


	4. trust me

for deexes, who wanted Viktor and Yuuri practicing the pair skate. 

\--  
Predictably, the first time they try the lift, they eat it. And the second. And the third.

By the fourth time Viktor is starting to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.

“Fuck,” Yuuri says, after the dozenth or so time they pick themselves up. He’s the problem; Viktor doesn’t need to say it. He knows. It’s in the tight look of inward concentration as they take a water break. He keeps panicking. Nothing overt, not a diver tucking their legs before they hit the water. Just a slight hesitancy that breaks the rhythm.

Viktor weighs the pros and cons, and decides to go for a direct approach. 

“You don’t trust me." 

Yuuri’s eyes flash back into focus. “What?”

“You think I’ll drop you.”

“You’ve dropped me about 20 times.”

“Only because you expect me to.”

“Viktor.” Amused exasperation. That always comes first. Then the amusement will vanish, the exasperation edging over into self-hatred. Viktor has never known anyone’s moods so well.

“Hey.” He traces fingers over Yuuri’s jaw, admiring the slight flutter of eyelashes against his cheek. “Do you know why I chose to become a figure skater?”

Yuuri frowns. “I thought it was because your parents–?”

“Yes, in part. But it appealed to me more than any other sport because it didn’t require me to join a team. The only person I had to rely on was me. Myself.” He breathes in the cold air of the rink, wishing Yuuri could speak Russian. This would be so much easier to explain. “I was my only responsibility. Pair skating is different.”

“Right, I know that.”

“Do you?” Viktor smiles. “I know it’s terrifying to trust, sometimes.”

“I trust you.” Yuuri touches his hand with the tips of his fingers.

“Then trust I’ll hold you up.” He grins. “You trust me with your body all the time in bed.”

Color hits Yuuri’s cheeks. All this time and still so easily flustered. Viktor hopes that never changes.

“Viktor–!”

“If you can trust me to put my tongue in your ass, you can definitely–.”

“VIKTOR.”


	5. which way

for lumi-af, who wanted Yuuri arriving at Viktor's apartment. 

\--

Viktor’s apartment is bright and sleek and gorgeous. It’s very him. The kitchen is small and doesn’t look like it’s seen much use. One of the windows is scratched up. Possibly Makkachin-related. There are trails in the carpet from recent vacuuming, and his closet is huge and arranged according to color and style, except for a jumble in one corner, where Viktor probably keeps the things he wears on a regular basis.

“Did you decorate it yourself?”

Viktor scrunches up his nose. “Sort of? I have a friend who works for an interior decorating firm. She helped.”

Right. Viktor’s friends. Yuuri is going to meet them this week. He’s going to sit in the cafe at the end of the street where Viktor gets his coffee. He’s going to skate in his home rink.

He experiences a moment of awkward indecision as he stands in the hall between a neat guest room and the shadowy expanse of a room that smells like Viktor. He shifts his grip on his suitcase. Hands land on his shoulders and steer him in. 

The bed is huge. Makes sense, considering a large poodle and Viktor’s tendency to spread his long limbs out like a starfish when he sleeps. “I have a confession to make,” he says. He takes Yuuri’s suitcase and sets it down, then slowly turns him to face him. “I may have lured you to Russia under slightly false pretenses.”

Yuuri’s face warms and his skin prickles, a pavlovian response to the thrumming intimacy of Viktor’s voice. “Huh?”

“I know I said sightseeing and relaxation--." Viktor backs him up until the back of Yuuri’s knees hit the bed. "--But that was a clever ploy to get you somewhere we can have sex without me having to look your mother in the face the next morning and wonder if she overheard her son moaning my name.”

Yuuri lets out a sound of mingled shock, revulsion, and hysterical amusement. He laughs so hard he topples backward onto the bed, dragging Viktor down on top of him. 

Okay. That part isn’t an accident.


	6. a house of cards

Viktor POV. not a request, just me having feelings. 

\--

Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t remember his grandmother’s face or her voice, but he remembers the card castles. They were magnificent–many-layered, fragile constructions of luck and persistence. Whenever they fell, she would let out a single sharp swear word and begin again. As a child Viktor was convinced that if he kept very still, held his breath and stayed quiet, the castle would rise.

If Viktor is being dramatic–and he generally likes to be–he’d say his life is like that card castle. A delicate structure of wins and loses, competitions and titles, putting in enough time with his family so they don’t forget his face. Photo shoots, public appearances, crafting the mask he wears for the cameras and for the fans. He dresses fashionably enough to stay on all the blogs without being charged with trying too hard. He plays the rake, the eligible bachelor, scandalous but not too scandalous. 

Viktor’s castle is so fragile that all it takes is one drunk Japanese skater with hungry eyes and an unbelievable ass to smash it all to dust. 

Okay. It isn’t his ass. Well. Not entirely. 

Viktor is standing at the edge of the ballroom, bored, tired, counting the minutes until he can make a graceful exit. A waiter passes with a tray of champagne, and he and another guest reach for a glass at the same time. There is nothing particularly remarkable about him–a short Asian man with glasses and a hideous tie. Katsuki, that’s his name. The competitor from Japan who had choked during the Final. 

He looks just as exhausted as Viktor, just as unhappy to be here. But then their eyes meet and it’s like a breaking dawn, the parting of a sea. Katsuki is obviously already a couple drinks in, but his _smile_ –the pleasure is so pure that Viktor is convinced he must have mistaken him for someone else. Someone incredibly dear to him, someone magnificent.

But then he says, “ _Viktor_.” Wide-eyed, delighted reverence.

Viktor doesn’t know why it’s so different. He’s used to devotion, used to desire, used to his presence setting people aflame. But there is a strange alchemy in Yuuri Katsuki’s eyes, the same tired echo Viktor can feel in his own mind, a pull of doubt and fear and the selfishness inherent in daring to long for anything at all.

Katsuki is drunk–Viktor has to remind himself that all night, he’s drunk and so the way he holds him while they dance, the blatant possession when anyone else tries to talk to Viktor might mean nothing. But it doesn’t matter. Something inside Viktor implodes that night, scattering his life with debris. He will never be the same.


	7. Chapter 7

Yuuri has been in love with Viktor for years. But he loved him the way you love something distant and bright, with a perfection that can never be worn away. Unwavering, unquestioning. A shiny shell around nothing at all. Adoration isn’t love. It’s obsession and projection. Or, maybe it is love, but not the kind anyone should be burdened to reciprocate. Love like that shatters. 

When the moment comes it’s quieter than Yuuri expects. Simpler, like the smooth satisfaction of pulling the last string in a knot and watching it all come undone. 

After the short program Yuuri is aching all over, inside and out. Viktor is sitting on his bed with the hotel phone to his ear. He’s laughing at something with the concierge. The light inscribes a faint circle of light in his hair, eyelashes fluttering soft on his cheeks as he closes his eyes in silent concentration. 

He looks up when Yuuri emerges from the shower and smiles, one finger raised to indicate he’s almost finished. “Yes, yes, thank you. You’re my hero. Room 656, yes. Bless you.” He hangs up, and something inside Yuuri _seizes_. 

They call it falling, but it’s more like weightlessness. Rising. Climbing.

Viktor flicks his bangs out of his eyes. “I hope you’re feeling adventurous, because I have no idea what I just ordered.” 

It’s euphoria, a shock of seismic activity up his spine, but it is also insurmountably sad, because he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Viktor cares about him, wishes for his success. He wants him in a way that Yuuri is only really beginning to come to grips with. But how can he know if he feels the _same_ way, if Yuuri can barely identify that feeling himself? How does anyone ever know if they are feeling the right things in the right way, at the right time? 

He is frozen, drawn half out of his body with nowhere to escape to. 

Viktor frowns. “Nerves?”

The next day he crashes through a quad flip, riding the surging energy of the crowd even as he skids across the ice. When he strikes his ending pose, Viktor is just a silver blur on the side of the rink, but then that blur is moving. 

Lying on top of him on the ice, the whole world watching, Viktor says, “I wanted to surprise you.”


End file.
